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POEMS AND LYRICS 
 
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Poems and Lyrics 
 
 By 
 
 ALFRED ABERNETHY COWLES 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 1917 
 
4 
 
 Copyright 1917 
 By JAMES T. WHITE A CO. 
 
 OCT 18 1317 
 &CLA476605 
 
To Edmund Clarence Stedman 
 Poet, Philosopher and Man of Letters 
 This Little Volume is Inscribed 
 By The Author 
 
THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORK 
 
 Alfred Abernethy Cowles was born in Torrington, 
 Conn., September 28, 1845. His father, George P. 
 Cowles, was vice-president of the Ansonia Brass and 
 Copper Co. ; and his mother, the daughter of Gen. 
 Russell C. Abernethy, was a woman of rare intelligence 
 and cultivation, and possessed of a fine appreciation of 
 literature. His preliminary education was acquired at 
 the Chase Academy of Middletown, Conn., which was 
 completed at the College de France, Paris, France, 
 where he received that liberal education which gave him 
 his taste for art and letters in after years. He began 
 his business career at the age of nineteen as a clerk in 
 the National Bank of Ansonia, Conn,, but after two 
 years' apprenticeship he was given a position in the 
 Ansonia Brass and Copper Co. as an entry clerk, where 
 he rose rapidly through its various departments to be 
 the President of the Company, and later, vice-president 
 of the American Brass Company. In 1878 he organized 
 the Ansonia Clock Co., taking the position of Secretary ; 
 but was afterwards elected President, which latter 
 office he held at the time of his death, which occurred 
 December 9, 1916, at his New York residence, after a 
 short illness from an attack of pneumonia. 
 
 Mr. Cowles was a great lover of music and of art. He 
 
 was a musical critic of considerable reputation, and 
 
 while a young man, simply for his pleasure, wrote 
 
 reviews and criticisms of the opera and other musical 
 
 7 
 
productions, which were accepted by the leading musical 
 journals of the country with appreciative praise. Dur- 
 ing all his busy career his imagination created poems 
 of rare beauty, which his natural modesty withheld from 
 publicity; but his friend, the late poet and critic, Ed- 
 mund Clarence Stedman, was so impressed with their 
 artistic excellence, precision and finish, that he urged 
 their publication, insisting that it was Mr. Cowles's duty 
 to bestow upon the world the gift of these lovely 
 lyrics. Mr. Cowles never published in the magazines, 
 and it is only in this volume that one can know his 
 rare and delicate art. When a man denies himself the 
 public appreciation of his literary work, there can be 
 no doubt of the motive of his art, and that it was a 
 spiritual necessity which impelled the creation of his 
 verse. 
 
 To Mr. Cowles the art of poetry had a very personal 
 relation, and he practiced it to express his own person- 
 ality, and to reveal the realities hidden in human nature. 
 His lyrics, therefore, have a comprehensive significance, 
 and his readers cannot fail to recognize a language 
 common to the feelings and emotion of all mankind. 
 The high privilege of communicating this golden knowl- 
 edge is the distinction of the true poet. 
 
 Mr. Cowles's verse has the lightness of Aldrich, the 
 temperament of Heine, and the grace of Shelley. It 
 is characterized by a pervading sense of youth and 
 music, of hope and fulfillment, of limitless ambition 
 
 8 
 
and deep humility, that impresses one with the certainty 
 of a poet's presence. His verse has a wide range of 
 themes, which show acquaintance with art and litera- 
 ture; the entire volume is surprisingly thoughtful and 
 satisfying. He has also the ability to evoke what 
 Maeterlinck calls "the caressing voices which we cherish 
 at the depth of us"; and in addition to the usual hall- 
 marks of genuine poetry is the supreme fact, that it 
 "lingers in the memory." 
 
 James Terry White. 
 New York, May 1, 1917. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Author and His Work 7 
 
 Proem 14 
 
 Semitones. 
 
 Words Are the Organ Stops 16 
 
 Introduction 17 
 
 Sonnets 19 
 
 At Daybreak 21 
 
 Atlantis 22 
 
 Oblivion 23 
 
 Caprice 24 
 
 The Dancing Bear 25 
 
 The Headless Statue 26 
 
 Beata Beatrix 27 
 
 The Days that Were 28 
 
 Love Is Only a Memory 29 
 
 Anthem 32 
 
 The Dream 33 
 
 Interlude 36 
 
 In December 37 
 
 Regret 38 
 
 A Stray Glance 39 
 
 Until Death Do Us Part 40 
 
 Interlude 42 
 
 Song 43 
 
 Lyric 44 
 
 Insufficiency 45 
 
 Love Comes but Once 46 
 
 n 
 
Deseret 47 
 
 Song 48 
 
 Serenade 49 
 
 Song 50 
 
 Interlude 52 
 
 The Night Cometh 53 
 
 Ad Astra 54 
 
 It Is Quite Easy To Be Wise 55 
 
 If I Came Back 56 
 
 The Garden 57 
 
 Perversity 58 
 
 Rejoice and Complain Not 59 
 
 The Blind Violinist 60 
 
 The First Kiss 61 
 
 There Are No Fetters For the Mind 62 
 
 Across the Dinner Table 63 
 
 In Autumn 64 
 
 Interlude 66 
 
 Parlor and Garret 67 
 
 Requiem Aeternam 69 
 
 The Gates of Sleep 70 
 
 La Joie Fait Peur 71 
 
 Carpe Diem 72 
 
 With the Camels 73 
 
 Three Score and Ten 75 
 
 Compensation 76 
 
 Within Thy Breast 77 
 
 King for a Day 78 
 
 12 
 
Be Ye Therefore Merciful 79 
 
 Three Clowns and a Nightingale 80 
 
 October Days 81 
 
 Ballade 82 
 
 Paraphrase 85 
 
 Ballad of Rose Mary 87 
 
 To F. A. C 94 
 
 The Cry of Arcady. 
 
 Prelude 96 
 
 Prologue 97 
 
 God Gave Us a Day Together 103 
 
 Boccaccio 105 
 
 King Cophetua 106 
 
 The Letter 107 
 
 At Church 108 
 
 Upon the Bridge at Avignon 109 
 
 Chansons des Fleurs 110 
 
 A Princess 112 
 
 Once More 113 
 
 At Woodlawn 115 
 
 The Goose Girl 117 
 
 Love Cannot Live on Sweets Alone 118 
 
 A Cycle of Songs 119 
 
 Antiphone 122 
 
 To J. T. W 123 
 
 13 
 
PROEM 
 
 Who ranks the least in love's degree 
 Can best intone the songs of love, 
 As blind men in dark places move 
 
 More readily than those who see. 
 
 They stumble not, nor do they touch 
 The stones that bruise our laggard feet i 
 But we have known life's bitter-sweet, 
 
 And lived in love's clear light too much. 
 
 14 
 
SEMITONES 
 
 15 
 
Words are the organ-stops whereon 
 
 The rhythmic songs of life are played, 
 Ere yet the faltering hands are stayed, 
 
 The key-board closed, the player gone. 
 
 It is so far from thought to word 
 That half the image is unseen, 
 
 And half the harmony unheard, 
 
 So much there is that lies between. 
 
 Not by the outer ear alone, 
 
 Some finer hearing may descry 
 The hidden melodies that lie 
 
 Between the tone and semitone. 
 
 16 
 
SEMITONES 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 AS a fond mother, finding all forlorn 
 Her truant children, bounteously kind, 
 Knowing their faults — yet willing to be blind- 
 And to what imperfection they were born, 
 Opens her arms to shelter them from scorn, 
 So these, the errant children of my mind, 
 I gather tenderly and fain would bind 
 My life with theirs till both shall be outworn. 
 You, my first-born, along what perilous ways, 
 And far, you went ere you came here to rest ! 
 And there be even those who deem you dull, 
 My Benjamin, deserving only praise; 
 And you, perhaps of all, I love the best 
 Because no other finds you beautiful. 
 
 17 
 
SONNETS 
 
 I. 
 
 WARMED by the soft Sicilian skies that shine 
 Where the Madonian hillsides, drawing near, 
 Slope to the sea, or else descending sheer, 
 By steep and devious footway and incline, 
 Fall to the faery vale of Proserpine, 
 Faunus, reclining, piped unto my ear 
 The reedy songs that serpents rise to hear, 
 Half hid in tangled greenery and vine. 
 Sudden a figure — solemn, filleted, 
 Finger on lip as if to stay my breath — 
 Parted the almond-blossoms and there stood, 
 Oak-crowned, outlined against the dusky wood ; 
 And when, half welcoming, some word I said, 
 The answer came, "I am not Love, but Death." 
 
 19 
 
II. 
 
 THE music ceased ; the songs of life and cheer 
 Were stilled; the reed went rattling to the ground; 
 Beyond the fountain, momently, the sound 
 Of fleeing goat- feet clattered loud and clear, 
 And I, with one whom all these creatures fear, 
 Alone remained; the very air around 
 Partook of silence; I, no longer bound 
 By Pan's enchantment, saw the mien severer 
 Said to the presence, "Since thou art not Love, 
 Leave me in peace."— "Aye, to the very end 
 Shall peace be thine ; no more Love's torment now 
 Will trouble thee, nor any passion move." 
 So hearing this, I said, "Come nearer, friend, 
 And let me feel thy touch upon my brow." 
 
 20 
 
AT DAYBREAK 
 
 WHEN the gray dawn was deepening into red, 
 Above the hills a slowly widening zone, 
 Just at the hour when earth is most alone, 
 My lost love came and stood beside my bed; 
 Pearl white her pinions, arching overhead, 
 And in her eyes such soft compassion shone 
 That all my sorrows lifted and were gone. 
 "I am God's handmaid now," I thought she said, 
 "And minister to them that once I knew;" 
 "O why are you so kind to me?" I spoke, 
 "Have you not grieved enough?" she made reply, 
 And then a great peace filled me through and through; 
 She leaning forward, I, poor fool, awoke, 
 And saw the red light flaming in the sky. 
 
 21 
 
ATLANTIS 
 
 WHO has not seen it, high in heaven set, 
 Cutting the skies in lines as clearly drawn 
 As when, from Bordighera's grove at dawn, 
 Far Corsica is seen in silhouette? 
 Vision of purple cloud and parapet; 
 Look well upon it ere the light be gone, 
 For there thy dearest hope is held in pawn ; 
 It is the palace of thine own regret. 
 There is the land that lured thee to delight, 
 Stretching away beyond those luminous spires; 
 Enchanted river, wood and waterfall, 
 All vanishing upon the verge of night. 
 Behold the home of all thy lost desires ! 
 Look upon Lethe flowing by the wall! 
 
 22 
 
OBLIVION 
 
 COULD Love abide, apportioned to our need, 
 And all his bounty to our race inure ; 
 Peopled by Love with all things bright and pure, 
 Could Love abide, then earth were heaven indeed. 
 And yet, when Love's companion, Death, we heed, 
 No more we seek to know if Love be sure; 
 But, rather, ask, could we this world endure 
 With Love and Death to be our daily need? 
 Alas, poor Love ! a thousand lowly mounds 
 On every hillside mark his sure decay; 
 The day declines ; the air is dark and chill ; 
 Through tower and tomb the winter wind resounds; 
 By household fires how many hearts are gay, 
 Unmindful of the slowly darkening hill ! 
 
 23 
 
CAPRICE 
 
 EASY it was to love in the old days, 
 When, for a silken girdle or a glove, 
 Men moved on earth as constellations move 
 In the great field of heaven before our gaze. 
 Dauntless they rode along disputed ways 
 And couched at night, content for very love, 
 On the bare ground with the cold sky above; 
 Careless were they alike of blame or praise. 
 But now what hapless circumstance is mine ! 
 Frowns are my arrows, glances are my spears ; 
 And I oppose them with a shield of glass; 
 Oppressed by fashion of these later years 
 I see my lady in her carriage pass, 
 Further from me than tented Palestine, 
 
 24 
 
THE DANCING BEAR 
 
 CHAINED in a brewer's vat, the wretched beast 
 Feels underneath a slow unwonted fire; 
 Now lifts one foot and then another higher, 
 His body swaying with the flames increased, 
 Enlivens merrily a village feast 
 Where gaping rustics gather to admire, 
 Until, with muttering and moaning dire, 
 He learns, at last, to dance — that knew it least. 
 And, later, in the pleasant country lanes, 
 The music pulsing in the summer air, 
 The merry children thronging in the place 
 Remind him of that furnace of despair; 
 So, to the poet, a memory remains, 
 As if the tears were rolling down his face. 
 
 25 
 
THE HEADLESS STATUE 
 
 IN some forgotten Alp or Apennine 
 There is a winding road — the only door 
 Into a valley, like a level floor, 
 Circled about with cypress and with pine. 
 There, in a garden, at the day's decline, 
 I sat upon a marble bench before 
 A headless statue, twined with hellebore, 
 Ancient as Bacchus and his wreathed vine. 
 Tis Pan, with ready fingers poised above, 
 Holding a flute where once his lips had been, 
 But silent now, since all his song must die 
 With lack of breath to utter — Ah, my love! 
 How can I breathe the song that is within? 
 How can I voice the heart's most bitter cry? 
 
 26 
 
BEATA BEATRIX 
 
 WOULD it were true that we shall live again 
 To walk in gardens where no grief may go, 
 And only gladness through life's stream shall flow, 
 After this comedy of ruth and pain! 
 My eyes look out, beyond the mist and rain, 
 To those far fells whereon the gods bestow 
 Such grace as lesser beings may not know, 
 There would I journey were it not in vain. 
 Ah, then what joy that final cup to drink, 
 Borne by the angel that Rossetti drew ! 
 So might I find thee, by some river's brink, 
 Gathering those deathless flowers that never grew 
 In our dark world, or anywhere, I think, 
 Save in our dreams! I would that it were true! 
 
 27 
 
THE DAYS THAT WERE 
 
 THE days that were before I saw thy face — 
 How distant and how shadowy they seem! 
 Like the bewildered vision of a dream 
 They came, they were, they vanished into space; 
 Yet now I know that each day had its place 
 In Life's economy — a thought supreme, 
 A lovely variant of a lovely theme. 
 They were not wasted; these I now retrace 
 Hid in the arras hanging in thy room — 
 Birds, flowers, Graces, figures manifold 
 Woven of those departed days long gone ; 
 And these are radiant tissues from the loom, 
 Fit for thy starry garments ; this the gold 
 And Tyrian for thy feet to tread upon. 
 
 28 
 
LOVE IS ONLY A MEMORY 
 
 Perhaps we are led and our loves are fated, 
 
 And our steps are counted one by one; 
 Perhaps we shall meet and our souls be mated, 
 After the burnt-out sun. 
 
 Edwin Markham. 
 Just one picture hung in the room 
 The saddest story that art can tell. 
 
 T. B. Aldrich. 
 
 SO long, so long ago 
 It was, they could not know 
 In what forgotten clime 
 Their hearts were tuned in time, — 
 By what cerulean sea 
 They beat in harmony, 
 The half, each single soul, 
 Of one perfected whole. 
 
 So far apart they went 
 
 They could not be content, 
 
 The while, from world to world, 
 
 Their sundered souls were whirled. 
 
 Though Time, in mercy, cast 
 
 A veil upon the past, 
 
 Still, as the ages grew, 
 
 Something their spirits knew; 
 
 Something of their old love 
 
 Shone on them from above; 
 
 29 
 
They heard incessantly 
 The sound of that great sea ; 
 Their souls within them burned, 
 Nor knew for what they yearned. 
 
 Again, by some strange chance 
 Or sport of circumstance, 
 Again upon this earth 
 Their spirits had their birth; 
 Again she came to him; 
 Just at the outer rim 
 Their circles touched — small blame 
 If both broke into flame! 
 
 Sinful it was we know, 
 The wise world said 'twas so; 
 And so thought one who sent 
 Both to their banishment, 
 And bade the lovers hark 
 Back to the primal dark. 
 
 Grim Florentine, who stood 
 With Virgil in the wood, 
 And on Hell's murky throat 
 Your fateful legend wrote, — 
 
 30 
 
Who, peering through the gloom, 
 Saw Farinata's tomb, 
 And saw, as in a glass, 
 The murdered lovers pass, 
 Could not your wit devise 
 Some greater sacrifice? 
 
 Behold their punishment! 
 His eyes on her are bent, 
 His arms about her thrown, 
 She is not there alone; 
 And he can see and hear 
 All that to him is dear; 
 While on them from above 
 Still shines immortal love. 
 
 31 
 
ANTHEM 
 
 'Oh! that I knew where I might find Him!" 
 
 — Book of Job. 
 
 THINE ear is deaf; no errant word, 
 In all the ages that are gone, 
 Of all our praying hast Thou heard; 
 Of all our mournful cries, not one. 
 
 Thy lips are dumb; no voice of Thine 
 The endless, envious years have known; 
 Unto our sight has come no sign, 
 Unto our waiting ears no tone. 
 
 Thine anthem priest and pagan sing; 
 They gather round Thine altar-flame; 
 They worship, to whose worshiping 
 No benediction ever came. 
 
 They name with awe Thy dread abode; 
 Thy dwelling they decree so far 
 That all must perish by the road 
 In Thought that leaps from star to star. 
 
 32 
 
THE DREAM 
 
 I KNEW it was a dream; and yet 
 My feet upon that path I set, 
 And followed on that winding way 
 Down to the very end of day; 
 Down through the ever deepening wood 
 I followed far until I stood 
 Where no one ever stood before. 
 Above me, in the sycamore, 
 The wood-owl whimpered plaintively; 
 Dark water to my foot was nigh. 
 It was the same, that sullen stream, 
 And yet — I knew it was a dream. 
 
 On, on into the night I went 
 Until my store of strength was spent; 
 And all the bitterness, the care, 
 The wretchedness of life was there. 
 No hope was in me to withstand 
 The horror of that lonely land. 
 
 33 
 
Sudden, a dwelling to my sight 
 With open door was all alight. 
 There was a supper-table spread; 
 The guests were seated; at the head 
 Were you who are my heart's despair, 
 And by your side an empty chair; 
 Your eyes embraced me at the door, 
 "Ah, why did you not come before?" 
 
 To me, your smile was heaven's bright beam, 
 And yet — I knew it was a dream. 
 
 34 
 
TRIOLETS 
 
 35 
 
INTERLUDE 
 
 /F words are only empty sound, 
 What profit lies in songs like these? 
 Yet we have seen the Pleiades 
 In pools of water on the ground; 
 
 Or, peering in a little glass 
 
 No greater than a handbreadth wide, 
 
 Beheld the lordly planets pass 
 
 That sway the seasons and the tide. 
 
 All that I am, or hope to be 
 I strove in singing to rehearse, 
 And found it in a single verse 
 
 That holds the Pagan world — and thee. 
 
 36 
 
IN DECEMBER 
 
 IT is June when my lady goes by, 
 With the sweep of her gown and her grace ; 
 Though the calendar's there to deny, 
 It is June when my lady goes by; 
 For the warmth of the earth and the sky 
 
 With her coming is full in my face; 
 It is June when my lady goes by, 
 With the sweep of her gown and her grace. 
 
 37 
 
REGRET 
 
 WHEN Doubt came in at the door 
 Then Love flew out at the grating; 
 But he turned for a look once more 
 (When Doubt came in at the door) 
 At the firelight on the floor, 
 
 And the warm little corner waiting, 
 When Doubt came in at the door 
 And Love flew out at the grating. 
 
 38 
 
A STRAY GLANCE 
 
 IT was only a look she gave, 
 And a strain of music dying 
 Like the sound of an ebbing wave; 
 It was only a look she gave, 
 But we carry such to the grave 
 
 In pay for a life's denying. 
 It was only a look she gave, 
 And a strain of music dying. 
 
 39 
 
UNTIL DEATH DO US PART 
 
 IT was hardly worth while to say it, 
 So soon was the word forsworn; 
 With a priest and a ring to stay it, 
 It was hardly worth while to say it ; 
 Since love and the doubt to slay it 
 
 Of the same desire are born, 
 It was hardly worth while to say it, 
 So soon was the word forsworn. 
 
 40 
 
LYRICS 
 
 41 
 
INTERLUDE 
 
 /WORSHIP what you might have been; 
 I know it is not what you are, 
 For you were like a falling star, 
 A moment glorious — then unseen. 
 
 All men must lose what most they prise; 
 
 There is no permanency here, 
 
 Only a memory and a tear 
 And splendor failing from the skies. 
 
 42 
 
SONG 
 
 LOVE comes not to thy call, 
 And stays not for thy word 
 His vagrant footsteps fall 
 Unseen, unheard. 
 
 I whispered Love to stay 
 A little while, a breath, 
 
 E'en though the lingering day 
 Be one with Death. 
 
 43 
 
LYRIC 
 
 THY mouth is the rosebud's hue 
 Thy cheek is the eglantine; 
 Thine eyes are the tender blue 
 Of the lotus-flower divine. 
 
 Bloom of the East and West 
 God gave thee for thine own, 
 
 And hid in thy flowery breast 
 Instead of a heart — a stone. 
 
 44 
 
INSUFFICIENCY 
 
 SO many things I longed to say 
 To her who is my heart's delight, 
 I said them over day by day, 
 And held them in my mind at night. 
 
 But, when at last the moment came 
 That I so long had wished might come, 
 
 Before Love's burning altar-flame 
 My tongue was mute, my lips were dumb. 
 
 45 
 
LOVE COMES BUT ONCE 
 
 ONCE, and once only, will you greet 
 The guest you have so longed to see; 
 Mind that the room be swept and sweet 
 With lavender and rosemary. 
 
 Once, and once only, will you hear 
 
 At break of day that low, clear call; 
 Awake! Awake! for Love is near, 
 
 He brings his bounty to your wall. 
 He brings the dawn, he brings the dew, 
 
 He bids you open wide the gate; 
 Be it with heartease or with rue, 
 
 Say never that Love came too late! 
 
 Once, and once only, will you greet 
 The guest you have so longed to see; 
 
 Mind that the room be swept and sweet 
 With lavender and rosemary. 
 
 46 
 
DESERET 
 
 BEWARE of words; they are too fleet 
 Their subtle tones our lips evade, 
 As if a beggar in the street 
 A viol of Amati played; 
 
 Or, sounding some uncertain note, 
 Experience with Expression strove, 
 
 As when a weakling to his throat 
 Had set the hunting-horn of Jove. 
 
 47 
 
SONG 
 
 THY voice is in the whispering wind, 
 Thy breath is in the breeze; 
 Thy dwelling-place I may not find 
 
 Among the murmuring trees; 
 On earth I know not where thou art, 
 Save in the longing of my heart. 
 
 And when to heaven I lift my eyes 
 
 Among the stars above, 
 I cannot find thee in the skies; 
 
 Thou art not there, my love; 
 In truth I know not where thou art, 
 Save in the longing of my heart. 
 
 48 
 
SERENADE 
 
 DARK lies your scented garden 
 That blossoms red and white, 
 Faint with the breath of roses, 
 Wet with the dews of night. 
 
 No flower falls from your window, 
 For me no light will shine; 
 The gods of life's undoing 
 Took care of yours and mine. 
 
 And only in your slumber, 
 Where we alone may meet 
 Across the fields of Dreamland, 
 I come to you, my Sweet. 
 
 49 
 
SONG 
 
 SOMETHING there was of sorrow, 
 Something there was of wrong; 
 And all was wrought in sadness 
 
 Into a little song. 
 Something there was of longing, 
 Something there was of woe; 
 And all was bound in melody 
 A hundred years ago. 
 
 Something there is of darkness, 
 
 Veiling a deeper dream 
 Of long-remembered music 
 
 Heard in the twilight gleam. 
 I wonder who is singing, 
 
 And how she came to know 
 That someone was heart-broken 
 
 A hundred years ago? 
 
 50 
 
INTERLUDE 
 
 51 
 
TjffE P a y the price for what we gain, 
 r r Nothing is given, all is bought; 
 
 And, at the barrier of thought, 
 Our gold is balanced, grain for grain. 
 
 For, when the nightingale sings best 
 And all the darkling hedgerows hear, 
 
 It is a thorn against his breast 
 
 That makes the tone so liquid clear. 
 
 True art is sorrow crowned with art; 
 He pays who, for a little fame, 
 Hearing at last the loud acclaim, 
 
 Hides, from the world a broken heart. 
 
 52 
 
THE NIGHT COMETH 
 
 WHEN I shall be among the wise, 
 With one thought folded in my breast- 
 A brother to the Centuries, 
 I shall not know you when you pass, 
 Nor feel your footfall on the grass. 
 
 O tell me now, while I may hear, 
 
 And heal my hurt and give me rest; 
 Speak to me now, the dusk is near ; 
 Speak to me, dearest, ere the night 
 Shall blot you from my mind and sight. 
 
 53 
 
AD ASTRA 
 
 SO bitter is the bread I eat, 
 So close my life runs to the lees, 
 That I would be a child, my Sweet, 
 
 And weep my heart out at thy knees. 
 
 Yet do I honor thee no less 
 
 To be thy lover, though as far 
 
 As Hagar in the wilderness, 
 
 And thou as distant as a star. 
 
 54 
 
IT IS QUITE EASY TO BE WISE 
 
 THE word is passed, the seal is set, 
 I must not love you any more; 
 We now have only to forget 
 
 And all will be as once before. 
 
 It is quite easy to be wise 
 
 And lay our memories to rest, 
 But who can say they will not rise 
 Like odors from a sandal chest 
 
 That lies in some neglected room, 
 With brazen lock securely fast, 
 
 All redolent with faint perfume 
 To make us mindful of the past. 
 
 55 
 
IF I CAME BACK 
 
 IF I came back at the dead of night, 
 And pillowed my head where once it lay, 
 Would you welcome me with the old delight, 
 
 In the same fond words you were wont to say? 
 Or flee from my arms in sheer affiright? 
 
 When the dying day and the darkness blend, 
 
 If I came back from my lowly bed, 
 How would our greeting begin, or end? 
 
 "Love me forever," of old you said; 
 So tell, which would it be, my friend? 
 
 56 
 
THE GARDEN 
 
 THY heart is like a garden close, 
 With butterfly and floweret gay, 
 Wherein narcissus and the rose 
 
 And pansies vie in sweet array. 
 
 And there do Joy and Grief abide. 
 
 Thy gardeners ; the sun and rain, 
 Joint almoners with wind and tide, 
 
 Do bring thy pleasure and thy pain. 
 
 If I may only look therein, 
 
 Or lean a moment on the wall, 
 
 I am more blest than I had been 
 With angels in their heavenly hall. 
 
 57 
 
PERVERSITY 
 
 (Dolores Sings) 
 
 HE whom I love with all my mind, 
 To me is hardly more than kind, 
 Because his recreant soul is set 
 Upon a faithless, cold coquette. 
 
 And she will scarcely look his way, 
 But seeks another soul to sway; 
 Yet is her wish in vain — this one, 
 Alas ! has eyes for me alone. 
 
 58 
 
REJOICE AND COMPLAIN NOT 
 
 YOU love her with your heart and mind; 
 With others she is frank and gay, 
 Familiar, open as the day; 
 To you alone she seems unkind, 
 Reserved and distant, disinclined 
 To smile, or even look your way. 
 For, womanlike, she long has known 
 How close your thought is to her own ; 
 And, womanlike, she will not care 
 To let her own eyes linger where 
 Your eyes like burning stars are set. 
 Fool! would you wish her to forget? 
 
 59 
 
THE BLIND VIOLINIST 
 
 WHO taught thee that mysterious smile? 
 Whence came that wondrous tone? 
 "I saw thee, dear, a little while 
 Ere yet the day had flown." 
 
 Some in the sunshine lose their sight, 
 And some with tears and pain; 
 
 Some look their last on all delight — 
 And never see again. 
 
 60 
 
THE FIRST KISS 
 
 DROP on this fallen clay 
 The tear thou wouldst not shed 
 Unto this dull ear say 
 
 The word before unsaid. 
 
 Leave to their silence now 
 
 The lips thou wouldst not press, 
 And on this passive brow 
 
 Let fall thy first caress. 
 
 61 
 
THERE ARE NO FETTERS FOR THE MIND 
 
 THERE are no manacles to bind 
 My thought of thee ; no axe to kill ; 
 No chains, no fetters for the mind, 
 And I may worship where I will. 
 
 So, while by day and day apart 
 We drink of bitterness our fill, 
 
 In the rose-chamber of my heart 
 
 I may embrace and love thee still. 
 
 62 
 
ACROSS THE DINNER TABLE 
 
 T 
 
 HY face in tangled hair is set; 
 So sits the spider in his net. 
 
 Thine eyes invite the soul's desire ; 
 So burns the opal's baleful fire. 
 
 Lithe art thou in thy silken sheen 
 As the green serpent in his green ; 
 
 Not with an appetite more nice 
 Amina picked her grains of rice, 
 
 Ere, from her lips with languorous breath, 
 Her lover drank the dews of death. 
 
 63 
 
IN AUTUMN 
 
 THE new moon, like a scimitar, 
 Hangs in the darkening sky; 
 The sounds of earth are hushed and far, 
 As they'll be when we die; 
 
 Wind-swept the boundless plain below, 
 
 The bare boughs overhead, 
 And the whirling leaves that come and go 
 
 As they will when we are dead. 
 
 I, sunk with unremembered men, 
 You, in your marble pride ; 
 
 What will we be to each other then — 
 Who have already died? 
 
 64 
 
INTERLUDE 
 
 65 
 
T/ff^E' cannot keep what we have won; 
 rr Relentless to the end we move; 
 
 The noblest work, the purest love, 
 Must die with the decadent sun. 
 
 The radiance falling from afar, 
 
 To shine on worlds already dead, 
 Is tinctured with the baleful red 
 
 That marks the cooling of a star. 
 
 Mons are but a little span; 
 
 The worst will soon be as the best; 
 
 The plummet swings from east to west, 
 All, all must end as it began. 
 
 So little hope, so little trust! 
 
 Yet is my flower of life decreed 
 
 To bloom for thee, in thought and deed, 
 
 Until we mingle with the dust. 
 
 6b 
 
PARLOR AND GARRET 
 
 TM 'f HO EVER feels that he would not like to 
 rr think out to the end every thought that 
 comes into his mind should turn away from art. 
 
 He who would be an artist must melt 
 
 down everything" 
 
 — George Moore. 
 
 THE Pharisee is smug and clean ; 
 He thinks the thoughts that others think, 
 And does the things that others do; 
 His neighbor's path he follows through, 
 Stops at his neighbor's well to drink; 
 All his imagining is mean; 
 No room is in his narrow creed 
 For nature; he, with all his kind, 
 In every parlor in the land, 
 Hates what he does not understand; 
 Unto the inner light is blind, 
 Is envious in thought and deed. 
 
 In poverty, unkempt and wild, 
 Uncomprehended, slighted, blamed, 
 The artist with his own thought stays, 
 And gives the world an answering gaze, 
 As innocent and unashamed 
 In spirit as a little child. 
 
 67 
 
From his own thought he cannot shrink 
 All things are tribute to his art; 
 No fear is his, no littleness; 
 The truth he labors to express; 
 Fidelity is in his heart, 
 And faith is more than meat and drink. 
 Rather would I be one of these 
 To live away from all my kind, 
 And season with salt tears my bread, 
 Having no place to lay my head, 
 Yet hold Truth's image in my mind, 
 Than dwell among the Pharisees. 
 
 68 
 
REQUIEM ^TERNAM 
 
 LET this be graven on the tomb, 
 That they may learn who loved thee best, 
 "Whoever to this place may come, 
 Lord, give them an eternal rest!" 
 
 Let not their naked souls be blown 
 By winds that wander in the dark, 
 
 Nor yet from shore to shore, unknown, 
 Be borne by Charon in his bark! 
 
 But let the kindly earth enfold 
 
 All that was born at Earth's behest ; 
 
 And, best of all Thy hand can hold, 
 Lord, give them an eternal rest! 
 
 69 
 
THE GATES OF SLEEP 
 
 ALL day those portals shine afar, 
 They glisten in the sun; 
 An angel sets the door ajar 
 When the long day is done. 
 
 Silver and gray his vestments are, 
 And, with unerring hand, 
 
 He leads us where a single star 
 Lights all the solemn land. 
 
 The dwellers in that star-lit space 
 Are not the friends we see, 
 
 But those who, with averted face, 
 Departed silently. 
 
 Angel of night, lead on apace! 
 
 The doors of Sleep unbar, 
 And guide me to that trysting-place 
 
 Lit by a single star! 
 
 70 
 
LA JOIE FAIT PEUR 
 
 I FEAR no enemy's device; 
 No harm can reach my soul's retreat 
 Nor loneliness, nor sacrifice 
 Can turn nw purpose to defeat. 
 I know that death is but a call 
 Back to the place from whence we came; 
 There is no future to appal, 
 No circle of eternal flame. 
 I fear not fate, for I am made 
 Of sterner stuff than those who quail. 
 But, at the touch of joy I bleed; 
 With happiness I faint and fail, 
 When comfort comes I am afraid ; 
 Ah, then I am a coward indeed. 
 
CARPE DIEM 
 
 THREE things I would not know, 
 The day when I shall go 
 Unheralded, alone, 
 Into the All Unknown; 
 
 Nor where, by land or sea, 
 My level bed shall be; 
 Nor what my Love will do, 
 When I with life am through. 
 
 72 
 
WITH THE CAMELS 
 
 ABROAD, in the misty city, 
 The great gray houses loom ; 
 Over the roofs of London 
 I see them from my room. 
 
 Over the roofs of London 
 
 I see the fine rain fall, 
 
 And my eyes turn from the window 
 
 To a picture on the wall. 
 
 My eyes turn from the window; — 
 And the sky is warm and blue 
 Clear to the edge of the desert 
 Where the caravan came through ; 
 
 Clear to the edge of the desert 
 Stretches the sunlit sky, 
 Over the sands of Asia 
 As the camel train goes by; 
 
 73 
 
Over the sands of Asia 
 The wandering tribesmen fare, 
 Each on the back of his camel, 
 Rugged and brown and bare; 
 
 Each on the back of his camel 
 Muffled and gaunt and grim, 
 They dream of the palm tree growing 
 On the desert's utmost rim; 
 
 They dream of the palm tree growing 
 Where the waters leap and flow. 
 Over the roofs of London 
 The shadows are dark and low ; 
 
 Over the roofs of London 
 There is only grime and gloom; — 
 But we are afar where the camels are, 
 The star-spring and the bloom. 
 
 74 
 
THREE SCORE AND TEN 
 
 THE ruined roof is prone to fall, 
 Where built the swallows long before 
 The gate hangs rusty on the wall; 
 
 The path is grass-grown to the door. 
 
 Gray lichens moulder in the place 
 
 Where once the honeysuckle grew; 
 
 Gone is the glamour, gone the grace; 
 The Old remains to mock the New. 
 
 Time works his pleasure, good or ill; 
 
 He touches part, but not the whole; 
 Lo, from the crumbling casement, still 
 
 Looks out the indomitable soul. 
 
 75 
 
COMPENSATION 
 
 TO all sad souls who walk with Truth, 
 Knowing the world regards not well 
 Artist or singer, age or youth, 
 
 A voice comes ringing like a bell. 
 
 Across the interminable years, 
 
 It sounds from Weimar's lonely towers,. 
 "Who never ate his bread with tears, 
 He knows you not, ye heavenly powers !" 
 
 The giant hand that writ the word, 
 Long since has fallen to decay; 
 
 That mighty heart, with passion stirred, 
 At last "compounded is with clay." 
 
 But what shall quench the voice that said, 
 "Who never, through the wakeful hours 
 
 Of night, sat weeping on his bed, 
 
 He knows you not, ye heavenly powers 1* 
 
 76 
 
WITHIN THY BREAST 
 
 UNWEARIED through the dust and din, 
 And through the day that blinds us all, 
 The sturdy laborer within 
 
 Taps with his hammer on the wall. 
 
 The night is made for rest and peace, 
 
 The laborer should slumber long; 
 And will thy knocking never cease, 
 
 Now sounding low, now sounding strong? 
 
 And must thou labor night and day? 
 
 Who bids thee toil so late, my friend? 
 "My workshop is this wall of clay; 
 
 Tis my own coffin I must mend." 
 
 77 
 
KING FOR A DAY 
 
 WHO, down this busy street 
 In glittering pomp and pride, 
 With tramp of horse's feet 
 
 Comes in such state to ride? 
 
 One who, erewhile unknown 
 On some small errand bent, 
 
 Along this road, alone, 
 
 Unnoticed came and went. 
 
 But now men stand apart 
 
 To give his progress room ; 
 
 The pedlar turns his cart, 
 
 The weaver quits his loom ; 
 
 And children leave their play 
 To see the splendor pass, 
 
 With plumes of black and gray 
 And panoply of glass. 
 
 So, lest our common clay 
 
 Lack all ennobling, 
 Death, for a single day, 
 
 Makes ever}' man a king. 
 
 73 
 
BE YE THEREFORE MERCIFUL 
 
 SO rudely into being thrust, 
 We know not whence we come, nor why; 
 A little dew above the dust; 
 A little fragrance ere we die. 
 How scant the blosoms that we cull ! 
 Even our joys are pitiful; 
 We dance, we sing, and over all 
 Projects the shadow of the pall. 
 
 In silk attire we are at ease 
 
 Because some others toil and sweat; 
 
 We do not sleep, but one of these 
 
 Keeps watch, whose eyes with tears are wet; 
 
 We do not eat, but some brute life 
 
 Is bludgeoned into endless night; 
 
 Oh, is there not enough of strife, 
 
 Enough of pain, enough of blight? 
 
 Or, is the world no longer young, 
 
 And Love no better than a name, 
 
 That one should steal the serpent's tongue 
 
 To blast another soul to shame? 
 
 79 
 
THREE CLOWNS AND A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 T 
 
 HREE clowns, a bird imprisoning, 
 Tried, each in turn, to make it sing. 
 
 The first, withholding drink and food, 
 Left it to pine in solitude. 
 
 The second pinched and hurt the bird; 
 But still no note of song was heard. 
 
 The third clown sat beneath a tree; 
 "I'll bide my time, sweet bird," quoth he. 
 
 Ere long the night was in the sky, 
 And the forest rang with melody. 
 
 80 
 
OCTOBER DAYS 
 
 ORARE October days! Ye leave your strange 
 Foreshades of things ideal everywhere; 
 Autumnal glory crowns the mountain range; 
 Autumnal rapture floods the tranced air; 
 Steeped in a golden languor sleeps the sky, 
 
 As sinks the drowsy sun into his rest, 
 Where burning clouds in crimson masses lie 
 Athwart the glowing portal of the west. 
 
 The waning sunshine softens over all; 
 
 Unto the music of sweet-voiced rills 
 Enchanted lights and shadows rise and fall 
 
 Within the charmed circle of the hills; 
 The hazy wold a magic vision seems ; 
 
 The far-off heights a fairy glamour take; 
 And distant headlands, dim as summer dreams, 
 
 Immerge their purple shadows in the lake. 
 
 From the brown stubble-fields on either side 
 
 Is heard the mellow piping of the quail; 
 And, from an opal sky, faint-flushed and wide, 
 
 The Hunter's moon looks down, serene and pale; 
 On steeps remote the parting sunbeams rest ; 
 
 Illusive shapes the bosky hollows fill ; 
 Then twilight shades the quiet glens invest, 
 
 And all is dim, and mystical, and still. 
 
 81 
 
BALLADE 
 
 IN what domain of earth or sky 
 Are you whom I have found so fair? 
 Whose perfect grace my lines imply ; 
 Whose loveliness is my despair; 
 To what dim court shall I repair, 
 With sonnet, song and roundelay, 
 
 To charm your footstep to the stair? 
 I do not know, I cannot say. 
 
 What wondrous lights and shadows lie 
 
 In Isabella's auburn hair! 
 Her mouth is just a bit awry. 
 
 Clarice is blithe and debonair; 
 
 To hear her voice I hardly care: 
 Estella has your eyes of gray. 
 
 How came her nose so tipped in air? 
 I do not know, I cannot say. 
 
 Sweet Alice renders sigh for sigh; 
 
 Her smile is fitted to ensnare; 
 She holds her gown a trifle high; 
 
 Her ankle — well, that's her affair. 
 
 82 
 
But, on a crowded thoroughfare 
 In crossing on a windy day, 
 
 I fear there's nothing much to spare; 
 I do not know, I cannot say. 
 
 83 
 
L'ENVOI 
 
 Your colors in my casque I wear ; 
 
 I will adore you while I may; 
 Dear Goddess, are you anywhere? 
 
 I do not know, I cannot say. 
 
 84 
 
PARAPHRASES 
 
 To Whom It May Concern 
 From the French of Alfred De Musset 
 
 MY sisters, in grace and guile, 
 One fatal gift you share; 
 To entrance Man with a smile 
 And delude him to despair. 
 
 A laugh we can hardly hear; 
 
 A look, an unspoken word, 
 When one who loves you is near, 
 
 May cut his heart like a sword. 
 
 He turns away his head 
 
 And hides the wound in his breast; 
 Yet, truly, when all is said, 
 
 I count his part the best. 
 
 He turns his face aside; 
 
 But his is the nobler part; 
 Better the martyr's pride 
 
 Than the headsman's habile art! 
 
 85 
 
La Vie 
 
 From the French 
 
 HOW vain the comedy of life! 
 A little hate, a little strife; 
 A look uplifted to the sky; 
 A laugh, a bow, and then — good-by. 
 
 How brief the spell that holds us here! 
 
 A little hope, a little fear; 
 
 A little love, a little light; 
 
 A wish outworn, and then — good-night. 
 
 86 
 
THE BALLAD OF ROSE MARY 
 
 IN heaven a calm, clear night befell, 
 A time of stars on high, 
 And all the prisoners in hell, 
 Each from his horror haunted cell, 
 Looked out upon the sky. 
 
 Then, chief among the sounds of pain 
 And songs of sacrifice, 
 One soul took up the old refrain. 
 "O send me back to earth again," 
 Above all bitter cries. 
 
 "When I was wed with bell and ring 
 My heart by man was won ; 
 
 I loved not God nor anything 
 But him who was my lord and king, 
 For this I am undone. 
 
 "Because I loved not God alone 
 
 My soul is cast aside; 
 How could I be in love with one 
 Whose presence I had never known, 
 
 Or be a spirit bride?" 
 
 "I loved the thing He sent to prove 
 My faith, and set apart ; 
 I held it all the world above, 
 I gave it all my human love, 
 
 And hugged it to my heart." 
 
 87 
 
"For this I am in bitter woe 
 And live in endless pain; 
 Ah, that an angel would bestow 
 One gift of heaven and let me go 
 Back to the earth again 1" 
 
 "My body lies beneath a stone, 
 
 By death yet undented; 
 The sorrow is not all my own; 
 Those that I love are left alone, 
 
 My husband and my child." 
 
 "A twelve-month more has passed away 
 With Winter, Summer, Spring; 
 Soon comes again the boreal day, 
 With wind that smote me where I lay 
 And left them sorrowing." 
 
 "At morn he leaves his lonely bed 
 
 To labor with his hands; 
 The wind beats down upon his head, 
 Yet must another mouth be fed 
 With harvest from the lands." 
 
 "I hear the farm-latch click at night, 
 
 I see the cattle come; 
 And, in the mellow evening light 
 The swallows circle in their flight 
 
 Round what was once our home." 
 
"He lifts the latch — the fire is dead, 
 
 Upon the hearth no spark; 
 No flame to make the rafters red, 
 There is no supper table spread, 
 And all the house is dark." 
 
 "The rats run riot in the gloom, 
 
 They clatter in the hall; 
 His refuge is a lonely room 
 That needs a basin and a broom, 
 And needs me most of all." 
 
 "Ah! once I was his hands and feet, 
 His lamp, his light, his life, 
 
 His wine to drink, his bread to eat; 
 
 Behold him maimed and incomplete, 
 A man without a wife I" 
 
 "The young, warm body that I had 
 Lies stiff beneath a stone ; 
 
 My limbs in cerements now are clad; 
 
 Be merciful lest I go mad 
 And perish here alone!" 
 
 High o'er the dreadful towers of hell, 
 
 Only the cruel stars 
 Give ear unto the souls that dwell, 
 Each in his separate sunken cell, 
 
 Pent in by prison bars. 
 
 89 
 
The plague of hell, the bitterness, 
 
 Is not of fire and chains; 
 The spirit knows its own distress, 
 Is eaten up with loneliness, 
 
 And nothing more remains. 
 
 II. 
 Once in a year, it is decreed, 
 
 An angel of the Lord 
 Comes down from heaven, to intercede 
 And stand before hell's gate, and read 
 
 Some sanctifying word. 
 
 Then Satan, with his high courtesy 
 
 And chivalrous intent, 
 Deigns, with a mock humility, 
 A single spirit to set free 
 
 From hell's environment. 
 
 So when the angel came again, 
 
 And stood with drooping wings, 
 He heard the piteous refrain, 
 And begged the soul's release from pain 
 Above all other things. 
 
 Her body lay beneath a stone 
 
 By death yet undented ; 
 No ghastly change her flesh had known, 
 Her face had even lovelier grown 
 
 As if she slept and smiled 
 90 
 
The name they gave her at her birth 
 
 Was graven on the stone. 
 Ah, faithless one, how little worth 
 To love her when she was on earth 
 And not when she was gone ! 
 
 She did not dream, she could not know 
 
 A thought so fugitive, 
 For she was one of those who grow 
 To love us when we are laid low, 
 
 As well as when we live. 
 
 The calm, the cruel stars looked out 
 On field and farm and fold ; 
 
 The pump was frozen at the spout; 
 
 The watch-dog dragged his chain about 
 And whimpered with the cold. 
 
 Not with the savor of decay, 
 
 As other forms have come, 
 But fresh as on her wedding day 
 Rose Mary came along the way 
 To what was once her home. 
 
 Her heart, ah, who can tell how glad, 
 
 How firm it was, how brave ! 
 In her own raiment she was clad, 
 The warm, sweet body that she had 
 Was risen from the grave. 
 91 
 
How grateful after long exile, 
 
 How glad we cannot know ; 
 But round her lips the spirit smile 
 Caressed her mouth and eyes, the while, 
 
 As in the ground below. 
 
 There stood the farm before her sight, 
 
 The roofs all round about; 
 The gates were wide, the rooms were bright, 
 The windows cast great squares of light 
 
 Upon the road without. 
 
 Alas, for love and sacrifice 
 
 In days that went before! 
 Terror was there, and quick surprise, 
 But naught of kindness in the eyes 
 
 That saw her at the door. 
 
 Ah, that another should embrace 
 
 The lips that once were hers ! 
 She saw the horror in his face; 
 There was no welcome in that place 
 
 For spirit trespassers. 
 * * * 
 
 Far better that the dead should sleep 
 
 Through everlasting years; 
 They cannot rise, the grave is deep; 
 They do not know the faith we keep 
 
 With hypocritic tears. 
 
 92 
 
When once the funeral bell is tolled 
 
 No welcome waits above; 
 If one were risen from the mold, 
 The man would come to claim his gold, 
 The wife to claim her love. 
 
 93 
 
TO F. A. C. 
 
 I WOULD these little songs of mine 
 To some neglected land might be 
 Borne, as upon an Indian sea, 
 Not for the world's behoof, but thine. 
 
 Borne to a land where we alone 
 
 Might dwell on some forgotten shore, 
 And only hear the ocean's roar, 
 
 And not the critic's caviling tone. 
 
 Small then my audience, but rare; 
 
 My frailest lines would bring delight, 
 As dullard children, in the night, 
 
 Are wrapped with tenderness and care. 
 
 94 
 
THE CRY OF ARCADY 
 
 95 
 
TJTfHOSO would soundly sleep o'nights 
 r r 'Twere well at home he stayed; 
 
 To taste of Arcady's delights 
 The piper must be paid. 
 
 It may be better to forget 
 
 Those formal flowers and leaves; 
 
 Perchance those hollows are beset 
 With vagabonds and thieves. 
 
 But something pulses in the blood 
 
 And stirs within the brain, 
 And drives thee from thy quietude 
 
 To walk in wind and rain. 
 
 And something draws thee to the ring 
 
 That dances round the tree; 
 Behold thy spirit echoing 
 
 The cry of Arcady! 
 
 96 
 
THE CRY OF ARCADY 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SHE was a woman fitted to enthrall 
 The soul, and senses. All who saw her pass 
 Turned to regard her; such distinction lay 
 In all her deeds, in every word and thought; 
 Did she but cross a room there was no act 
 So common, or so small, but she adorned, 
 And by her touch made different and divine. 
 
 Her voice upon the ear was low and sweet ; 
 
 Now tremulous with violoncello tones, 
 
 Now tuneful as the singing clarionet; 
 
 Her eyes changed with her thought, now clear and 
 
 pure, 
 Now blazing like the sapphires of Ceylon; 
 Her lips were altars for the fire of love; 
 To look upon them was the heart's despair. 
 
 He was a poet melancholy, poor; 
 
 Not in material things, but poor in thought 
 
 And starved in spirit ; by repression dulled 
 
 As by surroundings ; poor, the most of all, 
 
 In that he lacked the jewel of her love. 
 
 There were, in truth, a thousand reasons why 
 
 She should not love him, and she knew them all; 
 
 97 
 
Yet in divine compassion did she pause, 
 Like Laura on the bridge, that he might brush 
 Against her mantle — much as when the Christ 
 Stood in the crowd and through His garment's hem 
 Felt that some good went from Him. 
 
 But one day, 
 One regal day when heaven and earth were wed, 
 When all the buds were broken and every bird 
 Sang to its mate — one perfect day in June 
 Her heart, most like a wild rose bourgeoning, 
 Alive with loveliness burst into bloom. 
 She was in love with Love; it was not he, 
 But his despair, that drew her to his side , 
 And made them one, that day and evermore. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then, while upon that mound you sat 
 Beneath the spreading oak, and heard 
 The twitter of the timid bird, 
 And saw a squirrel, round and fat, 
 Look wisely at you from above, 
 I gathered flowers for you to weave 
 Into a chaplet; these I brought 
 And watched your fingers deftly move 
 Among the blossoms. 
 
 By your leave 
 Forth from their deftly-hidden place I drew 
 Two volumes bound in vellum, white and blue, 
 
 98 
 
Of the Rossettis; songs of death and love, 
 Gabriel's despair, Christina's mournful thought. 
 Then, lying at your feet, aloud I read, 
 With frequent pauses, which the purling brook 
 Filled with a rhythm, like that within the book. 
 
 My thought to Dante Gabriel did incline; 
 
 You liked Christina best. "Uphill," you said 
 
 Is of all calls to death the most divine. 
 
 And with one song I saw your eyes were wet, 
 
 "Haply I may remember and haply may forget." 
 
 While I, with Dante, felt the wind and brine, 
 
 "The sighing sound, the sweet keen smell," once more 
 
 Say to my soul, "You have been here before." 
 
 I spoke to you of Gabriel and his bride, 
 
 So comely in her form, in mind so poor, 
 
 And wondered that he took her to his door, 
 
 And hid his songs her coffined form beside. 
 
 But you were enigmatic, and replied, 
 
 "Judge not, lest ye be judged; we cannot say 
 
 What men will do when love shall come their way." 
 
 I read no more; but listened while you told 
 Of the great northland lying far away, 
 Where in the summer it is always day, 
 So white the nights beneath the circling sun ; 
 Where in the winter day is scarce begun 
 
 
 
Ere it is quenched in night and bitter cold; 
 Of flaming skies illumined by the light 
 Shed by Aurora leaping from the pole 
 Clear to the zenith, crackling chill and white, 
 A phanton gleam to fill with awe the soul. 
 
 A land of larch and pine, in which the winds 
 Made music weirdly all the year around; 
 A land where lakes and waterfalls abound 
 With rugged hills, that stretch out in long lines, 
 And lowland meadows checkered by great farms, 
 Replete with grain and all the green earth yields; 
 And sturdy people working in the fields, 
 And poets nurtured in the solemn pines. 
 
 Your accent to the tale gave added charms, 
 Till we forgot our quiet little glade 
 Wherein we sat beneath the oak tree's shade. 
 Just at high noon, the pivot of the day, 
 Came from the inn a much desired panier, 
 From which we drew — a sight to cheer our hearts- 
 Cold eggs and caviare and cheese and tarts, 
 Which laughingly upon a cloth we spread 
 And breakfasted. The world to us was dead. 
 
 III. 
 That afternoon beneath us lay 
 A valley. Miles on miles away 
 Through purple hills a river wound, 
 
 100 
 
And field on field of furrowed ground, 
 With clusters ripening for the vat, 
 Rose to the terrace where we sat. 
 
 I know not in what angel's guise 
 
 You came that day, or what you said. 
 
 You were so lovely to my eyes, 
 
 Your hair, the turning of your head, 
 
 The wandering flush that came and fled 
 
 From cheek and brow and came again; 
 
 Were aught inelegant or plain, 
 
 Awkward or commonplace or dull, 
 
 Your touch had made it beautiful. 
 
 Our talk was idle wandering chat 
 
 Of things we knew and things unseen, 
 
 Of men and books, of this and that, 
 
 With lingering pauses left between ; 
 
 I like a page, and you a queen. 
 
 And when your voice the silence broke, 
 
 Sometimes your secret thought you spoke. 
 
 I less of mine, and still I knew 
 
 You understood me, through and through. 
 
 101 
 
Two things are not for words to tell ; 
 And one is sorrow for the dead, 
 And one is love. We know full well 
 Tis better being left unsaid; 
 Since love by memory is fed, 
 Surely no touch of time shall mar 
 A moment set so high and far. 
 
 ***** 
 That morning never came to pass ; 
 
 That afternoon is but a dream; 
 
 The river and the sunset gleam 
 
 I only see as in a glass ; 
 
 Yet well I know how it would seem 
 
 To sit beside that woodland stream, 
 
 Or watch with you the evening shine 
 
 On some fair hill beside the Rhine. 
 
 102 
 
GOD GAVE US A DAY TOGETHER 
 
 THE morning of that day, the sun 
 Was like a jewel of rich hue; 
 A myriad lesser jewels shone 
 Revealed in every drop of dew, 
 And all bird-voices were as one. 
 
 When we set forth upon our way 
 Our path led through the meadows gay, 
 With hawthorn hedgerows white and green, 
 Where blue and yellow blooms were strown, 
 All redolent of new mown hay; 
 While grasshoppers and honey-bees 
 Were making holiday at ease, 
 So fresh the morning of that day. 
 
 Then through a wood of fragrant pine, 
 Where shadows lay upon the ground 
 With flecks of sunlight sown between, 
 Whereon your footprints followed mine 
 So close the trees were hedged around. 
 Behind my own I heard your tread, 
 And had no need to turn my head, 
 So lovingly I knew the sound. 
 
 103 
 
At last we came upon a glade, 
 
 A happy vale, all ringed about 
 
 With a rose thicket; in the shade 
 
 Of a huge oak a grassy mound 
 
 Invoked repose; nearby we found 
 
 A brook with reeds upon the brink, 
 
 Where thirsty cattle came to drink, 
 
 With fishes darting in and out, 
 
 And wild flowers growing on the marge 
 
 And there our spirits were at large, 
 
 And there I looked into your eyes ; 
 
 We had said little on the way, 
 
 So filled we were with glad surprise 
 
 That God had given us that day. 
 
 104 
 
BOCCACCIO 
 
 ONE day I read how brave Sir Frederick, 
 Bereft alike of fortune, love and fame, 
 Sat in his garden, weary, lone and sick, 
 In sight of Florence; how his lady came, 
 Upon some selfish quest and found him there, 
 And dined with him within that garden fair. 
 And I remember how the tale ran on, 
 With Tuscan pride, a falcon seethed in wine 
 And death and wedding bells and joy divine, 
 All this I read in The Decameron. 
 
 I wonder if such gentleness and grace, 
 Compassion, pride and all that courtly train 
 Were ever in the world a little space; 
 Or were they only in Boccaccio's brain? 
 
 105 
 
KING COPHETUA 
 
 SHE sat upon his jeweled throne 
 With gold and purple overlaid; 
 In regal state she sat alone 
 In all her rags — a beggar maid. 
 
 The steps that mounted to the throne 
 Of chalcedony were and jade; 
 
 Through pictured domes the daylight shone 
 And fell upon the beggar maid. 
 
 While, wondering if they saw or dreamed, 
 Above, two princely children strayed 
 
 Along the gallery, and seemed 
 To smile upon the beggar maid. 
 
 He cast aside his kingly crown ; 
 
 Aside his costly armor laid, 
 When on the steps he knelt him down, 
 
 And bowed before the beggar maid. 
 
 O happy King! O blissful dream! 
 
 O deathless dream, that will not fade! 
 So shall thy love a princess seem, 
 
 Though she be but a beggar maid. 
 
 106 
 
THE LETTER 
 
 IF you wrote me a letter it would be 
 Most like a blossom falling from a tree, 
 When purple lilacs bloom, and everything 
 Is bathed in all the wondrous light of spring- 
 As if I looked up for a little space, 
 And felt the blossom fall upon my face. 
 
 107 
 
AT CHURCH 
 
 I HEAR the solemn organ sound; 
 I see the sunlight fall 
 From painted windows all around 
 Upon the paneled wall. 
 
 Again I hear the preacher say, 
 
 "Behold a little leaven ! 
 Accept salvation while ye may, 
 
 And lift your hearts to heaven." 
 
 I know that you are kneeling there, 
 
 Devout as you are wont; 
 A little gleam of neck and hair, 
 
 The fourth pew from the front. 
 
 And if my thought from heaven will stray, 
 
 God will forgive me, dear; 
 For heaven is very far away, 
 
 And you are very near. 
 
 108 
 
UPON THE BRIDGE AT AVIGNON 
 
 UPON the bridge at Avignon, 
 The day when Laura passed, 
 And Petrarch touched her purple robe, 
 No look on him she cast. 
 
 And, where the stones of Florence 
 Were worn with Dante's tread, 
 
 Was never sign of Beatrice, 
 For she was with the dead. 
 
 Upon the bridge at Avignon 
 
 The sun, this afternoon, 
 Shines down upon your silken gown 
 
 And little high-heeled shoon. 
 
 I cannot sing as Petrarch sang ; 
 
 I wield not Dante's pen; 
 But you, my dear, have made me here 
 
 The happiest of men. 
 
 109 
 
CHANSONS DES FLEURS 
 
 I. 
 
 Mignonette 
 Elles souffraient comme nous. 
 
 THE violet and the mignonette, 
 They watch the whole night through ; 
 At early morn their eyes are wet 
 With tears that shine like dew. 
 
 One looking east, the other west, 
 
 They sorrow silently; 
 They have some secret in the breast, 
 
 Unknown to bird or bee. 
 
 Their eyes at early morn are wet ; 
 
 They watch the whole night through ; 
 The violet and the mignonette, 
 
 They suffer — as we do. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eglantine 
 
 When over us the eglantine 
 On some green mound shall wave, 
 
 The blossoms growing over mine 
 Will lean towards your grave. 
 
 Our bodies, in the brown earth set, 
 
 Perforce must be apart; 
 But these pale flowers will not forget 
 
 What once was in the heart. 
 
 110 
 
III. 
 
 The Rose 
 
 Wind that blows from the west 
 
 Over the garden bed, 
 Which do we love the best — 
 
 The white rose, or the red; 
 
 Wind that blows from the south, 
 
 We know not which is best ; 
 The red rose is her mouth, 
 
 The white rose is her breast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Harebells 
 
 Ring, elfin bells ; unto the tune 
 That followed where the fairies went 
 
 With Pierrot and Claire de Lune, 
 And song-birds when their wings were spent. 
 
 Where honey-bee and oriole, 
 And tales that little folk invent, 
 
 Bring to that Garden of the Soul 
 Some echo of the old content. 
 
 ill 
 
N 
 
 A PRINCESS 
 
 O moated tower or battlement 
 
 Frowns on her Castle of Content. 
 
 No armied host her banner waves; 
 Her beauty makes all men her slaves. 
 
 Her treasure-house contains no store 
 Save her own thoughts — she needs no more. 
 
 No jewel on her front is seen; 
 Her manner marks her as a queen. 
 
 Resplendent in her simple dress 
 
 And crowned with her own loveliness. 
 
 For her no cloth of gold is spread; 
 She walks upon men's hearts instead. 
 
 112 
 
ONCE MORE 
 
 SO long the night had never seemed, 
 I was so worn with pain, 
 Until I fell asleep, and dreamed 
 I was a child again. 
 
 Beneath the window of a room 
 That well my memory knows, 
 
 The apple trees were all in bloom 
 In long and level rows. 
 
 There came, with noisy, clucking call, 
 
 The old hen and her brood; 
 While over by the orchard wall 
 
 My father's oxen stood. 
 
 And on the meadow path beyond 
 
 I saw my comrades pass, 
 Where once unto the swimming pond 
 
 We trod the beaten grass. 
 
 113 
 
The shadows on the garden bed 
 Grew longer in the light; 
 
 I never saw the sky so red, 
 Or saw the trees so white. 
 
 It was a dream that held me still; 
 
 Once more, for memory's sake, 
 I had my little life to kill, 
 
 My little heart to break. 
 
 114 
 
AT WOODLAWN 
 
 LEAVING behind the noisy street, 
 Where sordid life and social hate 
 Glare at me through the dust and heat, 
 
 I pass beyond the iron gate, 
 And see beneath an azure sky 
 
 A thousand Grecian temples shine, 
 And walk where early violets lie 
 With daffodil and columbine. 
 
 These grassy mounds ; those granite towers, 
 
 Crept over by the clambering rose — 
 Who knows how many hearts like our 
 
 Within their fastnesses repose? 
 How many, in those Doric tombs 
 
 Smiled on by the refulgent west, 
 Lie singly in their narrow rooms, 
 
 And wot not that they are at rest? 
 
 115 
 
How wonderful to be long dead 
 
 In summer warmth and winter snow, 
 With day and darkness overhead, 
 
 Or light of moons — and not to know ! 
 Ah! once, if for an hour alone 
 
 Such peace their parched lives had known,- 
 If once upon the soul such balm 
 
 For one hour only had been laid, 
 They would have waked, serene and calm, 
 
 Forever after unafraid. 
 
 116 
 
THE GOOSE GIRL 
 
 NO echo floated through the wood, 
 Nor song-thrush in the thicket stirred 
 Too deep for any man or bird 
 The enchanted forest where she stood. 
 
 And if some sound there entered in, 
 As when she turned to call her geese, 
 Was it the wind above the trees, 
 
 Or sobbing of a violin? 
 
 About the bodice of her frock 
 
 Her hair like falling water fell; 
 
 Ah ! heedless woodman, it were well 
 To follow with her charmed flock. 
 
 If one into that wood might pass, 
 A prince — what magic it would be, 
 To live the things we only see 
 
 By vision, darkly, in a glass! 
 
 117 
 
LOVE CANNOT LIVE ON SWEETS ALONE 
 
 LOVE cannot live on sweets alone, 
 Or follow only paths of ease; 
 For all too soon his valor flown, 
 He comes to walk on feeble knees. 
 
 But love on stronger meat must feed, 
 Or, haply, from the table rise 
 
 With only hunger for his meed, 
 And bitter herbs of sacrifice. 
 
 118 
 
A CYCLE OF SONGS 
 
 I. 
 
 WHOSE lightly treading feet, withal, 
 Were never formed on earth to fall; 
 And, coming to their own, those eyes 
 Were meant to look on paradise. 
 
 But when, in heaven, He fashioned you 
 Of light and spirit, fire and dew, 
 And paused His perfect work to see, 
 God, in His mercy, thought of me. 
 
 119 
 
II. 
 
 If you should cease to love me, dear, 
 How dark my mind would be, 
 
 Though every blossom of the year 
 Were white upon the tree! 
 
 Though skies were bright above me 
 With all that spring can give, 
 
 If you should cease to love me, 
 I should not care to live. 
 
 120 
 
III. 
 
 At night in dreams I hold thee, 
 When on my couch I rest ; 
 
 Closely my arms enfold thee, 
 And clasp thee to my breast. 
 
 Outside the dancers gather, 
 
 With flute and violin, 
 And faintly through my window 
 
 Their merriment comes in. 
 
 But always in my dreaming, 
 We mingle tear with tear; 
 
 And the sound of our own sobbing 
 Is the only sound we hear. 
 
 I know not why, my darling, 
 Such dreams should come to me ; 
 
 I wake — and I am weeping 
 Alone, and silently. 
 
 121 
 
ANTIPHONE 
 
 They search too far, who seek Thee there, 
 When Thou art near, in flower and sheaf ; 
 
 Thou art the answer and the prayer, 
 Alike believer and belief. 
 
 / 
 
 122 
 
TO J. T. W. 
 
 THERE is a fellowship in Art; 
 As one sees in a desert land 
 An unknown footprint in the sand, 
 And feels his trembling camel start, 
 
 And fares unto the journey's end, 
 Where in a tent when day is flown 
 He sits in Arab fashion down, 
 
 With bread and salt, — to find a friend. 
 
 123 
 
From Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 The gift of your book of poetic "Semitones," richly 
 bound for me with the care which means affection, and 
 the taste dear to a book-lover, and with the unexpected 
 dedication at its portal, has given me pleasure when I 
 chance most to need it. 
 
 Many writers, during long, yet swift-flown years, have 
 honored me by placing my name in print after their 
 title pages; I have a little cabinet of the books, and 
 love them. Let me say in all sincerity that I am not 
 only touched, but honored by your thought of me in 
 sending out this collection of poems, which have a charm 
 of structure and feeling which is always modern, and 
 which, although the expression of yourself at intervals 
 far apart, have nothing in themselves which could 
 place them out of touch with the new generation. 
 
 In this respect they remind me of Aldrich's enduring 
 method, and I know that he would have liked your 
 poems, as I do. That fine sonneteer most certainly 
 would have taken to your sonnets, and very likely he 
 knew some of them? I think your awarding them the 
 entrance-hall of your pavilion most just; and I like 
 the preludes to all the divisions, which are among the 
 few exercises in the "memoriam" stanzaic form that 
 have taken only their measure from our great Victorian 
 elegiac. It is unusual for a poet of your epoch to 
 bring out at last as restrained and finished a selection 
 125 
 
of his verses — when so much more must be underlying 
 them — and it is a lovable thing to do. Of course, in 
 the flood of latter-day fiction, magazine-verse, etc., 
 poetry more than ever must be "its own exceeding great 
 reward." Mine of the past more than repays me, when 
 a tribute like yours, as in Longfellow's song, assures 
 me that some arrow of mine has found "the heart of a 
 friend." 
 
 126 
 
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